If she saw him again. The chances were, now he knew she was ensconced here with Max, he’d stop pestering her and stick his nose into someone else’s illegal wranglings.
“… I parried to the left, made a feint, dodged back to the right, but he was too smart for me…”
“… I was impaled once, right here.” More linen was bunched up to expose violated flesh. “Tossed me right on to my shoulder, he did…”
He! A wave of disgust washed over Claudia. They talk about boars, bears and wolves as though they were the hunter’s equals, yet how often do you see stags armed with a slingshot, or running with their own pack of dogs? She looked round the banqueting hall, at watery red eyes, fists thumping on tables, where words were already slurring, and wondered how these cloistered, overweight city-types would fare in one-to-one combat. With no bearers carrying their spears or their arrows. With no dogs at their side to hound wild creatures into panic. Just them out there, with only their wits to keep them alive…
“Having fun, darling?”
“Absolutely.”
And what would it be like, living with a constant succession of drunken braggarts, day in and day out? Max coped admirably, but then the post-hunt entertainment – this orgy of showing off afterwards – was part and parcel of the package he sold. He was, she decided, a magician. An illusionist. A man who – abracadabra! – turns fat slobs into young bucks, and should they look in the mirror back in Rome and see who they really are, then hey presto! All they need do is hand over more coins and suddenly they’re heroes again. The “war” wounds were not only worth the pain and aggravation. They were fundamental to the whole process.
She recalled their return this afternoon, whooping and hollering in the courtyard amid carcasses of slaughtered beasts and a welter of blood-caked spears, concerned only with the glory of their own achievements and not a single thought for the wounded. Or a lowly slave, who hadn’t come home…
“Is our hero not invited to join the celebrations?”
For perhaps a count of ten you could have heard the proverbial pin drop following Claudia’s question, then everyone clamoured at once, most of them bursting into raucous, drunken, astonished laughter.
“You mean Soni?”
“Not in here, love!”
“Soni? Join us? Now that’s rich!”
Claudia felt a tug on her elbow as Max gently steered her away from the couch. “That,” he said, speaking through his forced smile, “was extremely embarrassing, darling. My guests comprise merchants, politicians – the cream of Roman society.” He paused. “They do not take their dinners with slaves.”
“They take their dinners with dogs.”
“Cyclone and Thunderbolt are exceptions,” he said, and his blue eyes were steel. “The other dogs remain in the kennels, and never, ever do any of the bearers join in the banquet.”
“No matter how competent?”
“No matter how competent.” She felt his whole body unstiffen. “I admire your liberated ideas about slaves and equality,” Max said, winding one of her curls around his little finger. “But it’s my job to give these men what they want, and believe me, they don’t pay several thousand sesterces to dine with common slaves. Ah! The desserts.”
Platters of melons and cherries, quinces in honey, almond cakes and dates stuffed with apple passed by in mouth-watering succession.
“Come sit by me while we eat, it gives me an excuse to slip my arm round your lovely smooth shoulder.”
“Shortly,” Claudia promised. “There’s something I must attend to first.”
“Of course.” Max gently released the ringlet. “Hurry back, darling,” he whispered, rubbing the sapphire ring on her finger. “Your beauty is all that makes the evening tolerable. Oh, and Claudia-”
“Yes?” She turned in the doorway.
“Betrothal rings go on the left hand, my love.”
IV
The room in which Junius lay was lit only by a single lamp of cheap oil, whose stuttering flame cast staccato shadows against the far wall. No mosaics covered his floor, no painted scenes brought bare plaster to life. Even the welter of bandages which swaddled his head seemed uncared for.
“You blockhead,” Claudia whispered, wiping a bead of sweat from his cheek. “What did you have to go and get yourself beaned for?”
Dust motes danced in the wavering flame, and the scent of her spicy Judaean perfume blocked out the smell of caked blood. He was lucky, according to Max’s physician, that no bones were broken, he’d taken one helluva tumble, but watching the shallow breathing and the waxy texture of his skin, lucky was not the first word which came to Claudia’s mind. Her hands bunched into fists. Dammit, Max knew the terrain up on the ridge like the back of his hand, he should have warned Junius that shale was dangerous. The stretcher-bearers told her what happened – how he’d lost his footing under the weight of the weaponry he was carrying – but the fact that the accident happened at all was the problem. She should not have allowed Junius to go. Max knew he was inexperienced, dammit he should have insisted the boy stayed behind – but since he hadn’t, then he should bloody well have taken better care of his charge!
She opened the shutter, allowing a small breeze to sport with the flame. From here, there was only a view of the cowshed, plus a hint of the moon through the oaks. Far away, a fox barked and she felt, rather than heard, the door open behind her.
“How is he?”
Claudia’s heart flipped a somersault. It can’t be. Sweet Janus, this isn’t possible – She waited until her pulse settled down. “Lazy as ever,” she said, not turning round. “But that’s servants for you these days. Not a thought for anyone but themselves.”
The baritone chucked softly, and her heart began to spin like a top.
“I’ve just come from the banqueting hall,” Marcus said. “And I think it’s a reasonable prediction to say there’ll be some jolly sore heads in the morning.”
Claudia did not smile. “Orbilio, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Oh.” He rubbed a hand over his chin. “Just passing.”
“On your way where, exactly?”
“Home.”
She took in the long patrician tunic, the high patrician boots, the firm patrician jaw. And wondered why it was that little pulse always beat at the side of his neck when they were alone. “Isn’t this something of a detour for you? Say, of some one hundred miles?”
His teeth showed white in the darkness and she could smell his sandalwood unguent, even through the pongs from the cowshed. Then the grin disengaged and his voice, when he spoke, was a rasp. “Claudia, you must leave, it’s dangerous here.”
She closed the shutter, and the flame straightened up. “It’s the Emperor’s fault,” she told the comatose bodyguard. “He will keep subsidising theatrical productions, some of the drama’s bound to rub off. Or could it be, Junius, that this aristocrat’s simply jealous of Max?”
“This has nothing to do with-Is that a betrothal ring on your finger?”
“See what I mean?” she asked the welter of bloodstained bandages.
“It is! It’s a betrothal ring! Claudia, you can’t marry that man, he’s worn out five wives already.”
“Six has always been my lucky number.”
“Fine!” He threw his hands in the air. “Fine. Do what you like, only for gods’ sake, let’s discuss this back in Rome. I have horses outside, we-”
Claudia spun round to face him. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are? My guardian? My husband? I’m not one of your flunkies.”